So Great A Thing
by GranthamGal
Summary: Jack invites Phryne to his house to tackle a rather unique mission of sorts. Set after S3 ep. 3. Just a one-shot that wouldn't leave me alone.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is not at all my usual cup of tea...as much as I love dear Phryne and Jack, I've never been brave enough to attempt to tackle their distinct voices. But after the (huge) consumption of lots of wonderful Phryne and Jack fic, I was tempted to try. So, I do hope this is not too silly or oddly characterized; it's just my little foray into their lovely world. Oh, and the title is borrowed from my (and Jack's) pal Shakespeare, from _Anthony and Cleopatra._

* * *

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson sat at the foot of the bed methodically brushing the black shoe in his hand. The room was quiet, save for the _swish—swish—swish_ of bristles against leather, and each time his eyes wandered up he noted with only mild concern that the room could be best described as a place of monkish simplicity.

It was only a bedroom, his bedroom, yes, but the desire for opulence in this room had never struck him. When he moved in after separating from Rosie, it seemed easiest to keep the modest décor that came with the rental, and he had settled into quiet complacency almost immediately. The frayed blue coverlet had been knit for him years before, a Christmas present from his mother, which he supposed was a greater reason for its continual existence than the modicum of comfort it provided. It was rather rough and the edge was worn on the side where he slept. The sheets, too, often ended up over starched and scratchy; his landlady, kind old woman that she was, could never seem to get the trick of the thing. Though he also supposed he should not complain, for she saved him the task of laundering. The walls were done up in a nondescript cream color that matched the rug and curtains, both a shade of brown that could be best described as akin to boiled peanuts. He'd chosen none of it, but had occupied space for years now without issue. It held few memories, though it contained nearly all his belongings, and the only thing that made the room distinct to him was the copy of Shakespeare, oxblood leather with a well-worn cover, that lay discarded on the bedside table. He read from it nearly every night, the dog-eared pages offering up clues to his favorite passages.

But now— _swish, swish_ —he looked down at the shoe again, worrying a particularly troublesome spot that refused to shine quite like the rest of the thing—now he faced the possibility of examination, interrogation, the great cracking open of his sad little abode, in just about twenty short minutes.

He knew that she would be on time. She always was, annoyingly so. For a woman who appeared to love nothing more than a late morning and staying around until the last call, when it came to his cases, she always popped in just on time, smiles and fluttering skirts and whip-smart, driving him to distraction and consternation in equal measure.

They'd agreed on the time nearly a week before. He'd brought wine from Strano's, and she'd allowed him into her parlor again, patting the settee and uncorking the bottle with well-practiced ease. They had toasted to something, though he could no longer remember what, and it had seemed different. The air, he thought, was changing. Well into the night, and well into a second bottle of wine (French and likely worth a dizzying sum), he'd fingered the fox fur throw, never before realizing how comfortable the room was, despite its luxurious sway. And of course all she had needed was one clue, this one little gesture, before she pounced. Question after question, the wine loosening his tongue faster than he would have liked, and before he quite knew what had happened, he had agreed to let her come assess and redecorate his home with the stipulation that he be allowed to choose before she purchased anything ornate or ridiculous. He knew, though, that she would not. She knew him perhaps better than anyone did, better than anyone ever had, and it unnerved him.

He stood now, dropping the shiny leather shoe to the floor, and slipped his foot in, the backs of his legs pressing against the mattress as he looked once more around the space. His cheeks burned a warm pink and stomach tingled with anticipation, realizing she would soon see these rooms and see—see him. Would she be disappointed? Phryne Fisher was nothing if not adaptable. He had seen her traverse class lines faster than the walls she scaled and she was never ostentatious about the privilege with which she lived. But to have her here, to allow her into this place, seemed a dangerous breach.

"We'll have to make do with each other," he'd told her that night, and he'd meant it. He had. Looking at her that night, the black lace of her blouse highlighting her reddened pout and porcelain skin, he knew with absolute certainty—more than he had ever felt it before, that he would do anything to be given a chance, would do anything if allowed only a few moments beside her burnished throne. And when he saw her mouth quirk into a smile, saw the lightness in her eyes, he thought that perhaps he—perhaps they—had been given a chance.

The ticking clock made him aware once more of the time, and he slipped his shoes on, surreptitiously tightening his tie and running a hand through his hair once more before he exited the room, closing the door with nervous haste that only ever cropped up when Phryne was about. He looked round the small parlor once more, taking in the coldness of the place, already wondering what it might be molded to under her influence.

The bell rang and was followed by a strong rap against his oak door. He could see her red hat refracted in the brushed glass, and took a final glance at the quiet order of the place, frowning at its muted air.

Perhaps, once again,she had come at just the right time.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack liked to think that he knew Miss Fisher— _Phryne_ —rather well. Not only was he in the business of picking up on seemingly small details, it was near impossible not to catalogue and commit to memory the bewilderingly delightful habits of the woman who occupied nearly every corner of his mind. And so he knew, from the experience of countless cases, dinners, and random invitations alike, that Miss Fisher would be precisely on time for their evening together. To arrive any earlier would normally be considered extremely unfashionable, and that was certainly never a term ascribed to her, but Phryne made a habit of arriving just at the start of things, perhaps because she, too, enjoyed picking up small details right from the start. He'd never considered the all too dangerous notion that it simply might have been the company she'd been arriving on time for.

It was for this reason that at precisely seven o'clock when the sharp knocking of the door drew him from his musings, his shoes were polished, his hair neatly combed, and the bottle of wine he'd picked up from a shop near the station was uncorked and resting atop the kitchen table ready for consumption. However expected she was, though, Miss Fisher had a knack for overwhelming him rather quickly. Fumbling haphazardly with the lock, Jack threw the door open and found himself doubly thrown off kilter when faced with the woman herself, standing on his doorstep precisely on time and in a delicately beaded red dress and matching black fur.

She brushed past him with an ebullient, "hello, Jack!" and for a dizzying, terrifying moment he thought she might lean forward to kiss his cheek. But, no—she only pressed her hand to his and chuckled, holding up a large picnic basket.

"I've brought provisions," she explained, popping up the lid of the basket with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. There looked to be a bottle of wine and a baguette in plain view, and Jack thought he smelled Miss William's peach cobbler, too.

"I believe I told you I would provide refreshment, Miss Fisher," Jack answered, closing the door as he watched her take in the room.

Phryne always had the distinct talent of looking as though she belonged absolutely anywhere, but even he had to admit, as he allowed her into his space, that her shimmering dress rather showed up the place completely. He fought the niggling discomfort deep in his belly, the urge to apologize for his sparse dwelling, and instead cleared his throat.

"Hm?" She looked up, having been distracted by a framed photograph of his family that rested on the parlor table, and blinked up at him, eyes bright and questioning.

Jack shook his head. "Nothing at all, Miss Fisher. Shall I—uh—take your basket into the dining room?"

Now it was her turn to shake her head, though Jack thought she rather pulled off the maneuver better than he. Her shiny black hair swished against pale cheeks, and she chuckled, patting the space beside her on the settee. "No, no," she answered. "We have work to do. I must feel the space—" she paused here, for dramatic effect, "—and, anyway, I quite like the idea of having a picnic in Detective Inspector Jack Robinson's parlor."

Chuckling, Jack assumed the place beside her and rested his palms atop his knees, feeling the lack of distance between them curiously intoxicating, even though she'd only just arrived. He cleared his throat, and turned his gaze downward to her slim hands, watching the way her fingers drummed against her leg. If he'd not known her so well, he'd have thought her nervous.

"So will the picnic take place before or after you feel the space?" He smiled again, watching as she quirked her lips into a curious half-grin, nails still drumming against the beaded fabric.

"J—ack." She sounded out his name, teasing as the fingers moved upward, brushing against the sleeve of his jacket. "Before, of course. Don't you know the rhyme?"

"—Rhyme?"

Grinning again, Phryne moved from her place on the settee and kneeled onto the floor, leaning forward to tip open the lid of the picnic basket. She pulled out a bottle of expensive looking wine and handed it to him as she recited in a sing-song voice, pulling out forks and checkered napkins, too:

" _All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,_

 _All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy."_

The words were enough to make the tips of Jack's ears red, and he mumbled something about procuring a bottle opener before wandering out of the room in the direction of the kitchen. Once inside, he set the bottle atop the counter and braced himself against the stone top, the warmth having traveled from the tips of his ears down to his neck, too. It would never do, not if he was so easily undone by her—they would never move past this seemingly endless phase of banter, of skirting round the feelings they both had. Or, well, the feelings he certainly knew he had.

He ran a hand through his hair, hoping he'd not mussed it, and completed the task he'd removed himself for. He did not dare serve the wine he'd bought earlier, as even the bottle's label looked inferior next to the one Miss Fisher had brought. By the time he returned to the living room, Phryne had removed what looked like the contents of a small restaurant from the basket. She was fiddling with a silver candlestick holder when he held out a glass of wine in her direction and sat back down beside her.

"I wasn't sure if you would have the right ambiance—" she said by way of explanation, striking a match and clapping with delight when the wick began to flicker.

"—And candles are required ambiance for a picnic?" Jack retorted, taking a generous sip of wine and hoping it might bolster his nerves.

She laughed again, the sound tinkling and melodic, and reached for the proffered glass he'd set down beside her. "This is rather good," she hummed appreciatively, not answering his question.

He nodded in reply, taking one more sip.

The room began to grow warm again as they sat silently, the weight of the silence—which usually felt comfortable—suddenly palpable. He wanted to say something, anything, really, but she was sitting beside him again, having moved from her place on the floor, and his eyes were fixed on the glittering beads of her dress and the intoxicating scent of her jasmine perfume. Jack felt his heart beating out an unsteady rhythm against his chest, each beat reminding him of the silence, of how dangerously, perfectly close she was, and before he knew quite what he was doing, his body betrayed his better thinking and he slid the final few inches closer, closing the small gap between them.

He took her hand. Somehow he knew, knew it in the way one knows something but does not want to know it and so one ignores it. He knew that it had to be him. As certain as he was that Phryne cared for him—was he, though, _certain_ , he suddenly wondered?—he knew that she would never take this from him, would never coax him into something he might not want simply because she could.

And so he took her hand, his thumb brushing methodical circles into her palm. She was looking at him, he knew, but he dared not meet her gaze. In just that moment, for he knew he only had this one moment, he focused on the feel of her skin pressed against his, no thick fabric to inhibit the touch in the way it always did when she took his arm. His stomach turned with excitement and terror and the possibility of what once might have seemed impossible suddenly before him. Here he was, now, at the precipice.

He looked up, slowly, and there she was.


End file.
